Dirty Damage: Chapter 16

He ghosted me.

The empty bed beside me confirms what my pride refuses to acknowledge—I’ve been dumped faster than a bad habit.

No note.

No text.

No explanation for why he slammed on the brakes when I was laid out before him like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Even my Princess Pop playlist—carefully curated for moments of crisis just like this—isn’t cutting through the cloud of confusion hanging over me.

I scroll through my notifications again, knowing damn well there’s nothing from him. My new phone is as pristine and empty as his side of the bed.

Fact: Oleg Pavlov doesn’t owe me anything.

Also fact: An explanation wouldn’t have killed him.

It’s not like I’m chomping at the bit to get his baby inside of me. I could use a few days—or years—to settle into this new arrangement.

But that’s what we agreed to. It’s in the contract: Sex is for baby-making.

So what was the point of getting me off last night and then bailing?

The hot and cold of it all has my head spinning more than it already was.

As I slide out of his bed, the cuffs slip onto the floor with a rattle. I can’t even look at them without blushing—but last night, I had them on.

I let him handcuff me to his bed.

I hurry out of his room and into mine, slamming the door closed just as my old phone vibrates on the nightstand. Just the sight of Mara’s name has me feeling homesick.

“Girl, where are you?” she asks when I answer the call. “I stopped by your place this morning before work. I brought you matcha and everything.”

I chew my lip, trying to construct a lie that won’t trip over any of the rules in Oleg’s contract. “I’m just… out.”

Nice. Smooth. Not suspicious at all.

“If you’re back with Drew, I swear to God…” she growls. “I have a canning jar with his ball sack’s name all over it. The name is Teeny Weenie, just by the way.”

I nearly gag. “I’d rather French kiss a cactus, Mar. Never ever getting back together, remember?”

“Swear on Taylor Swift?”

“I swear on you,” I vow. “That’s much more sacred.”

She sighs in obvious relief. “Good. I thought maybe you went to see Sydney again. I mean, after getting fired and riling up the internet with your titties, I’d understand.”

“Mara.”

“What? They’re good titties, okay? You should be proud, no matter what the stuck-up parents from the daycare center have to say about them.”

I drop my face into my palm. Honestly, with Oleg washing dishes and finger fucking me, I almost forgot that my reputation has been blown to absolute bits.

The hits just keep on coming.

“I couldn’t go see Syd even if I wanted to. Paul is being an asshole again.”

“He hit her?” Mara is familiar enough with my sister’s ongoing tragedy that it’s not even a question. Paul abusing Syd is an inevitability at this point.

I sigh. “Last time we talked, she had black eyes and a bruised cheek.”

“I’m going to need more canning jars.” She clicks her tongue. “Please tell me she’s finally leaving him.”

If only my sister had the kind of confidence Mara does. She doesn’t take shit from anyone. She’d never let a man hit her.

Or buy her body.

Mara is a firecracker, but she knows how to stand up for herself. How to take action.

It’s why I wish I could tell her what was going on with Oleg—get her advice on what to do after the disaster that was last night.

She knows he offered me a private position, but I’m letting her think I’m his personal assistant.

That’s better than being his personal concubine.

“Not yet, but… I’m working on it.”

“What does that mean?”

I hear her blare her horn through the phone. She’s heading into work.

I wonder if Oleg is already there. If he’s thinking about what happened last night.

A message notification lights up my phone. I check it, hoping it’s him.

It is not.

DREW: You planning to take care of Syd when she’s in Dubai? Paul dragged her there for a week-long party. Say the word and we can crash it together.

My stomach drops through the floor. Of all the stupid, reckless things my sister could do…

“Sut? You still there?”

“Yeah. Yes. I’m— I’m working on it,” I repeat. “I have to go.”

“The Beast cracking that whip?”

I can hear her suggestive eyebrow wag through the phone.

Considering I now know what his literal whip looks like, I don’t find it especially funny.

“Bye, Mara.”

I end the call and stare at Drew’s message. My fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to tell him exactly where he can shove his rescue mission.

SUTTON: I’d rather chop off my own arm and eat it than go anywhere with you.

DREW: So you don’t give a shit about your sister? Good to know.

Bastard. He always knows exactly which buttons to push.

SUTTON: Using Sydney to get to me? That’s low, even for you.

DREW: This isn’t about us. It’s about Sydney. We need to help her.

SUTTON: Funny how you weren’t interested in helping when you were on Lipovsky’s payroll.

DREW: I thought you cared enough to save her from him. Men like that don’t change, Sutton.

I drop the phone like it’s burning my hands. He’s right about one thing—men like Lipovsky don’t change.

But neither do men like Drew.

I do my best to stay busy: ordering groceries, unpacking my single duffel bag into one of the drawers in the guest room, walking laps around the living room.

But when my phone dings late afternoon, I lunge for it like a desperate, rabid animal.

OLEG: Swamped today. Won’t be home til later. Sending Artem over for dinner.

That’s it? After what happened last night—after he had me spread out and begging in his bed—that’s all he has to say?

My fingers fly across the screen, fury making them shake.

SUTTON: Is Artem filling in for all your obligations today?

My thumb hovers over Send as I debate whether I’m brave enough—or stupid enough—to poke The Beast.

Is that what I am to Oleg? An obligation? One more thing to cross off his to-do list?

I’d love to make him feel as low as I do, but I also don’t want him to know he has the power to upset me.

The elevator’s intercom saves me from myself.

“Sutton?” A deep voice echoes through the apartment. “This is Artem. Oleg should’ve told you I was coming.”

An eerie wail pierces the background before I stomp down the hall and smash the button. “He told me exactly five seconds ago. If he’d give me more notice, I would’ve said I’d rather be alone.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Artem asks as the wail subsides.

What the hell was that? Is this penthouse haunted with child ghosts? Of all the things, that might actually be a dealbreaker.

I sigh. “Nothing. Come on up.”

“I thought you already had access?”

“Well, I do… I just didn’t want to impose. You should have the right to turn me away if that’s what you want. Although, I warn you, you’ll probably regret it; I’m a hoot and a half.”

Dammit. Now, I’ll even feel bad trying to kick him out early.

With an eye roll, I grant him access.

But it’s only as the elevator light blinks, alerting me to his ascent, that I register what he said.

Us?

I glance down at my ratty shorts and tank top. If I’m about to be host to a lackey dinner party, maybe I should put on something nicer.

Then again, if Oleg wants me to play the part of hostess, maybe he should give me more warning. Besides, I’m not trying to impress anybody.

Then the shiny doors slide open and a six-year-old girl comes streaking into the foyer.